The Art of Opportunity
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: Inspired by the preview for Season 4. Love all of the possibilities with the expansion of the core group. Daryl and Carol have always had something special, inching their way towards something more than friendship. Can anything (or anyone) delay - or interrupt - that journey? Read to find out...I missed writing Caryl fic!
1. Open and Shut

_"Wanna screw around?" Her lips smiling, a promise in her eyes, as she assesses his reaction. _

He's not sure why this memory of her, from over a year ago, comes back to him right at this moment. Okay, fine, he's walking through C Block, past the crowd of folks he's still not quite used to even after all these weeks, towards the area where she conducts basic weaponry classes for the kids. A damned good idea, that.

She came up with it about a week in, after the Woodbury folk got settled. Came over to he and Rick one morning in the yard, told them she was going to set it up. _Told, not asked, _he grins to himself, adjusting his crossbow. _"No" wasn't an option, far as she was concerned. _He knows it's about Sophia. About arming these kids, better than her own daughter had been. She's learned, as they all have, that protection has to be a personal responsibility. They'll all defend each other to the death, but when death comes to your protector (it always does), you have to save yourself. And wipe the blood and tears off, and keep going. Ain't no other way.

He's got no idea why he's thinking on her flirting ages ago. Maybe…maybe because it's been so long since she's done it. It's not that she's cold or distant or uncaring or any of that. She _gets _him, he knows that. Sometimes, all it takes is a glance, a rueful grin. She cares about him with a certainty that squeezes something deep in his gut.

They are all so busy now. There are so many more people. Some, he likes. The kids are great. Mostly, he's reserving judgment. This odd, haunted life – when there weren't many of them, there was always time. Even if it was just to sit together, silently. She was always good at that. Just being somewhere, with him. Now it's always routine, and meals, and supply runs and reinforcing fences and teaching little kids how to stick knives into walkers.

He realizes as he enters her makeshift "classroom" that he misses the flirting. What her eyes promised when she did.

Her eyes. Those storm-colored eyes, that see everything. All of him.

She's kneeling on the ground, which is covered in big, square pillows, bent over an array of hand weapons. Six rapt children listen to her tempered, sweet voice explain the differences between the deadly tools before them. She hasn't seen him yet. He's still good at being quiet.

"Now, Ellie, can you show me the best way to carry this knife?" She hands it over to a kid of about 8 with two long black braids falling down her back.

Daryl squints, watches the kid closely. She looks hesitatingly at Carol, who smiles encouragingly, wrapping the child's small hand around the weapon. The little girl is scared of the knife. No big surprise there. But she has to learn to use it, and Carol's there to make sure she does.

"Ellie, that's not right, you gotta –" another kid, a boy a few years older with a crazy head of blond curls, reaches out.

Without taking her eyes off Ellie, Carol gently deflects the boy's hand. "Not just now, Conner. Ellie's going to get this right. Give her a minute." The kid leans back, huffy and annoyed. He catches sight of Daryl in the doorway.

"Daryl!" The boy jumps up and crashes into him, hugging his middle. The others follow his lead. He is momentarily surrounded by grade schoolers.

Carol remains on the floor, kneeling backwards, surrounded by her array of knives. She sends him a half-smile, one to let him know he's in trouble.

"Carol! I wanna learn 'bout crossbows! Like Daryl's! No stupid knives! Knives are lame," another kid about Conner's age pipes up. Daryl isn't sure of his name…Tom, Tim, somethin' like that...

"Thane, it took years for Daryl to learn how to use that crossbow," she looks at him, silently transmitting he shouldn't contradict her on the finer points of how and when he learned any of his fighting skills in front of her students.

"Carol's right, man," he clears his throat. These kids are treatin' him like the second coming. It's enough to make a guy a little jumpy. "'Sides, a knife is a real handy weapon. You oughta let her finish teachin' y'all 'bout 'em."

She's on her feet and walking over to him. She seems thoroughly amused with how worshipfully the kids are treating him. His stomach does a little flip, as it always does when he sees her for the first time each day, or when he's been out on a run, or really, for no particular reason, it seemed, sometimes.

"Okay, you guys. Lesson's over. We'll spend an extra fifteen minutes tomorrow. Ellie, you're not off the hook. I want to see you with that hunting knife tomorrow, okay?" The kid nods solemnly. "Go grab some lunch. Beth and Susan will be happy to see you guys a few minutes early." They all dash out, shouting goodbyes, and her eyes twinkle mischievously as she watches them bolt.

She suddenly turns back to him, swats him hard. "You ruined my lesson, rockstar. Ellie's been skittish since the beginning and I think she was about to actually handle the knife." She shakes her head at him, but he sees she's not actually angry.

"Sorry 'bout that," he rubs his stubble. It itches. "We're goin' on a run. Wanted to see if you needed anything." He likes taking care of her. Even if it's just grabbing a new mystery novel for her, or that shampoo he knows she likes, the one that smells like lavender and mint. _Now that she actually NEEDS shampoo. _

He smiles to himself. He knows why Carol kept her head shorn, before the world went to shit. There were lots of reasons, he supposes, but they all began and ended with Ed, and Carol's hatred of him and of the dead and buried version of herself that was Ed's wife.

This Carol, standing in front of him with her graying hair twirling and curling appealingly away from her face, is not that woman. She is a woman that teaches children how to use knives, but also tends their wounds with dogged love and pride.

She smiles up at him, and seems pleased. But something else is on her face, in that little crease between her eyes.

"Thanks," she replies, turning away, bending down to gather the knives together. "Thanks, and I am glad you came by, even if it was just to say hello," she pauses for a moment. "But I already gave a list to Tyrese." Her voice is casual. The pink now staining her cheeks is not.

"Oh, right, yeah, good, then," he's not even sure what he's saying. Something unpleasant is happening in his guts. It's like she's used one of those knives, which she now has gathered in her hands like a deadly bouquet, to slice through him.

"Is it good?" She stands there, just stands there, with her beautiful eyes, her knives and all of those words she hasn't said, not in awhile. She's waiting for him, to do something, say something, he knows. He just doesn't know what that is.

He feels like he's been standing at an open door leading to someplace scary and wonderful for a long, long time, stuck by a mix of fear and self-loathing. He's tried the knob and notices, for the first time, it won't open for him.

"Daryl?"

"Yeah, it's good. One less thing for me to worry about," he walks out without looking at her. Closes the door behind him.


	2. At the Window

At the Window

**A/N: Wow, you guys. You are all just…amazing. Thanks for the enthusiasm and reviews right out of the gate. I think this fic might have a slightly different tone than my other Caryl fics. Just hang on tight, and hopefully enjoy the ride. My prior readers will know I do rotating POV, so this chappie is Carol's, but the rotation is pretty fluid, in my mind. **

The door clicks shut behind him at the precise moment something clicks in her throat, where her heart is stuck. Her bashed-up but still-beating heart. She's surprised herself today – a few times. She walks over to the window of her makeshift classroom, still clutching the knives. Looks down into the yard. Sees him, his shoulders tense and his face surly, swing his leg over his -his brother's - bike. He's not looking at anyone else in the scouting group – Michonne, Sasha, some other folks from Woodbury, Sam and Karen. Tyrese.

_Tyrese, _she thinks, and the beat of her heart picks up its pace, sinks lower in her chest, no longer wedged painfully in her throat. The group roars away, out of the prison yard below, and she rests her forehead on the windowpane, sighs.

She's not exactly sure why she said what she did. It was true, of course. Tyrese had caught her in the yard a few hours ago, after breakfast, the bag with her arsenal of knives slung over her shoulder.

oooOOOooo

_"Carol, hey, Carol!" She spins around, watching his strong form jog towards her. He's a big man, but his demeanor is so calm, so staid, she often forgets his size. Until he's standing in front of her and she has to look up to meet his gaze. _

_"Morning, Tyrese," she greets him with a grin. "You all going on a run later?" Now that there are so many of them the supplies at the prison have been sorely depleted. Semi-weekly runs for supplies, to super stores and former shopping centers, have become the norm in the past few weeks. _

_"Yeah, we are. I was wondering, do you need anything?" He smiles at her, directly at her. No skittish averting of his eyes, which Carol is noticing are quite lovely. Dark brown, with thick black lashes. "We're gettin' the basics, of course, but if you needed anything in particular?" He raises his eyebrows at her expectantly. _

_Something bounces in her stomach, and she reaches her free hand around to her jeans' back pocket, fingering the short list, hastily written on lined notebook paper, that she'd planned on giving to Daryl, if he asks. _When _he asks, because he always does. Even if "asking" just means finding her, standing silently, until she passes it over to him without a word. _

_She feels the texture of the cheap paper on her callused fingers, looks back up at Tyrese, waiting, smiling. Makes a choice. _

_"Thanks, that would be great," she hands him the canary-yellow square, with her meager requests. She doesn't need much. But maybe…maybe she needs more than she thinks she does. His fingers brush hers as he takes it from her, and she wonders. That's all. Just…wonders. What does she need? What does she _want?

_He glances at the few items, nods, looks back up at her. "Big reader?" _

_She laughs. "Sure, in my spare time, such as it is." _

_"Me too," he rolls his eyes, gestures to the hustle and bustle around them. "In my spare time." He winks, smiles that slow, easy smile he has. He gestures to her sack. "Heard you're teaching some of the older kids basic hand-to-hand combat skills. It's a great thing, you know." His face clouds over a bit. She sees something on his face._

_"How many kids did you have?" Her heart squeezes, sees Sophia's face. Her face _before,_ before the barn. _

_"Just one. A boy. Frederick. Freddie. He was nine when…" he trails off. "You?"_

_"Sophia. She was almost twelve," she wonders if it will ever get any better. If not better, she'll take easier. _

_They regard each other for a moment, and he pockets her list. "I'll be sure to grab some books for you. Don't want our brains turning to mush. Then we're no better than the geeks, right?" He attempts a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. _

_He shakes his head a little, and suddenly his warm hand is on her shoulder, gently squeezing. "You're really doing something special, teaching those kids," his voice is soft, but his eyes are bright with unshed tears. "Teaching 'em how to save themselves, each other, if they have to. Their mommas and daddies aren't around to, so I'm thanking you for 'em, Carol. Thank you." He releases his hand, and jogs away, swiping at his cheeks. _

oooOOOooo

She made one choice in the prison yard that morning. And she made another, when Daryl showed up, disrupting her class, all scruffy, boyish charm and pensive shoulder shrugging. He loves the kids, and they worship him. _Which he is completely uncomfortable with_, she thinks, grins.

She was glad he came, glad he still thinks about her and wants to make her happy. She loves him, she knows. But what is the nature of that love? She knows she's a natural caregiver, for better or worse. Better, because people need her. Worse, because…because sometimes, she doesn't know when to stop. When to hold back, reserve a part of who she is for herself. For Carol, alone.

He had shown up here, sent her morning to disarray. Wanting to provide something for her, to her. She had made another choice, in telling him about Tyrese. She could have jotted another list, he would have left, pleased. But…

_What do you want, Daryl? _She's still looking down at the yard, as the scouting group roars quickly out of sight. She hits the glass softly with her palm, frustrated.

Maybe. Just _maybe. _She's been asking the wrong question, all this time.

_What do YOU want, Carol? What do you want, and what do you need? _She taps the glass again, smears it with her fingerprints. Pushes it open, to let in the fresh air.

What did she want, and what did she need?


	3. Hungry

Over the next few days, he feeds himself on the stew of emotions roiling in his guts. He's not sure of everything that's simmering in there, not yet. It's probably safer not knowing. Of that, he's almost certain.

Anger, for sure (_At who, Daryl? Her? That big lummox with the stupid hat he's always wearin'? YOURSELF?_)Frustration. Pain.

But, he thinks, also…regret? Fear? And, is it possible…desire?

He pushes these individual emotions, these feelings away as each bubbles to the surface; back down, down, down, so he doesn't have to examine them too closely. What's the goddamn point?

He avoids her as much as possible, though he doesn't admit to himself that's what he's doing. He leaves the prison grounds as often as he can. Yesterday, hunting with Michonne and a few of the Woodbury folks, he gets the crazy idea to just…run. To get as far away from everyone as possible.

Problem with that idea: he'd still be stuck with himself.

oooOOOooo

Too many people for him, nowadays. By far. He trains himself to rise early, just before dawn, to have a few moments of quiet solitude. He hears others stirring from his bunk, but not many: Rick, shushing a fussy Judith back to sleep; a few of the older folks, with bad joints and the ailments of the elderly, who slumber poorly, regardless.

He rises, splashes bottled water on his face, stumbles to the kitchen. There's always a pot of something simmering thickly on the stove, to ensure the masses are fed. He scoops some of whatever it is in a coffee mug, grabs a spoon, and walks out into the yard.

Morning is seeping slowly into the eastern sky. The indistinct figures on watch in the remaining tower raise their hands to him, and he waves back, shoveling food in carelessly. It burns his lips, and he curses softly.

"Take it easy," a voice from behind him. Her. She's gotten silent as a cat. "You're going to hurt yourself." He doesn't turn around. She pulls up next to him. She's got Judith in one of those baby-carrying contraptions strapped her front, like some kangaroo pouch or some shit. Li'l Asskicker is fussin'. He half-grins at the baby, unable to help himself.

"I knew bringing her was a good idea," she kisses the baby's head.

"Yeah?" He wasn't planning on saying anything, but she's good at getting him talking. Damn her.

"You've been in…a mood. I knew she'd put a smile on your face, and Rick needed to sleep," she sighs. He glances sideways at her. She doesn't sound playful. Not like she usually does. She strokes the baby's head, and Judith stops whimpering. She breathes deeply, looks up at the fading stars above them. "You don't have to do this. You're better than it, this dumb idea you've got that you need to run away from everything and anything good about yourself. From anything that makes you _better_."

She's looking right at him, relentless, and he doesn't let his eyes rest too long on her. He remembers. Back at the Greenes' farm all that time ago. She had accused him, furious, of shutting her out, taking away his friendship. She had said, fine. She'd lost so much more.

And now they both had. Lost. So much. And the possibility of what you _could _losewas endless. He thinks of Merle's destroyed head, his blood wetting the dry Georgia grass. Love is a bad joke, and the punch line is always at Daryl's expense.

He still doesn't speak, scrapes the bottom of the mug for the dregs of his breakfast. It sits in his stomach like a lead ball. She reaches out, takes it from him. Their fingers touch, and the sky brightens.

She stares at him over Judith's downy, sleeping form. "That's it then? Nothing else?" She is not the angry, broken, hysterical woman from the farm, not anymore. She doesn't need to remind him of her loss, and she doesn't try to shame him. She is calm, though he can feel her hand shaking, just a little.

"I don't have anything else," he chokes out, unaware he was going to say anything. He pulls his hand away too quickly, and the mug tumbles to the ground. It doesn't break. Just lays there in the dust, like an accusation. He bends over, picks it up.

She is walking away, back straight, shoulders squared.

"Carol!"

She turns. He debates momentarily, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other proffering the mug. "Take this up for me?"

"Always cleaning up your mess," she takes it. But her eyes aren't twinkling. She just looks weary. She heads back to the prison.

He waits until she's disappeared from view, holding onto the small object in his pocket, worrying over it. He pulls it out. A small bar of soap. He brings it to his nose.

_Lavender and mint_.


	4. Triage

**A/N: Just wanted to send lots of love and appreciation through the Interwebs at you all. The response to this story has really be overwhelming, especially since, as a writer, I am taking a slightly different approach on these characters' relationship and personal development. I am enjoying taking this trip with them, and am happy you all are as well. ~ CeeCee**

**Shout-out: ImOrca, you know your insightful words always inspire me to strive for greater heights in storytelling! **

She shouldn't have shamed him. She had spoken truthfully, but with bitterness and anger. And she realizes now, mere minutes too late, that the anger she feels is completely at herself. She is the stronger of the two of them. She should have thought before she'd spoken, rather than swiping back at his silence and surliness with unkind words. She just feels so…fed up…recently. She's just not quite sure at whom.

She sighs, kisses Judith's sleeping head, grips Daryl's breakfast mug. She reaches the double doors to C Block, turns back. He's still there, looking away from her. He's walked towards the fence, which is swarming with walkers. There are no stragglers anymore. They gather like wasps, coalescing together into a deadly mass. He's just standing there, considering them. Lights a cigarette.

"Carol," Rick's voice, behind her. She turns back towards the prison. He's standing there, grinning at her and his daughter. With him are Sasha, Glenn and Tyreese. "Thanks for the extra hour of shut-eye. I needed it." He comes over and brushes his hands over Judith's soft hair. Despite his words and the smile on his face, Rick looks as they all do, these days: frayed, over-worked and underfed.

Though she's happily slumbering on Carol's chest, Rick can't help himself: he eases Judith's chubby form out of the Baby Bjorn. She rubs her fists across her cheeks, clucks, nestles in the crook of her daddy's arm.

"Sorry," he grins at everyone sheepishly. Glenn is looking thoughtfully at the baby. Sasha is smiling, but her eyes are sad. Tyreese catches Carol's gaze and holds it.

"Nothing to be sorry about," she extracts herself from the papoose and slings it over her shoulder. Looks at Rick, content with his daughter. Glances at Tyreese again. Sasha is watching her brother and Carol's unspoken exchange. Now her smile has a slightly different cast to it. "They're only that little for so long." The quiet despair in her heart is reflected in Tyreese's face.

"Hey, guys," Carl appears at the doorway, all lanky arms and legs and boyish masculinity. "Thought you'd left without me."

"Like this one," Rick turns with a rueful grin. "Past my shoulders now. How did that happen?"

Carol tries to push her bitterness and anger back. Rick lost his wife, and more importantly – his faith in his wife. He nearly lost his sanity along with them. _But he has his children, _she can't stop these thoughts, as unfair and useless as they are. _How tall would Sophia be, now? Dolls would be far behind her. Would Carl be making cow eyes at her, instead of Beth? _

She gives all the negativity swirling around her mind and heart an enormous shove, smiles at them all. "What's on the agenda for you guys today?"

"Clearin' the fence," Sasha replies. "The walkers, they're actin' different, now. Gathering together, bunching up. They're wearin' down the integrity of the perimeter." She looks past the group, towards where Daryl's standing.

"Daryl and I noticed that last week," Carol replies, keeping her voice light. _Back when things were normal between us. Whatever passes for "normal" these days. _

"Yeah, it's a real problem," Glenn responds. Carol's worried about how pale he looks, how worn. "Today's not just about clearing the fence; it's about reinforcing it." He pauses. "Yo! Daryl!" He shouts, and Daryl turns. Sees them all standing there. Makes his way slowly across the yard, walking towards them. Not looking at her.

"How's that book?" Tyreese is at her elbow.

She grins up at him. He's close enough that she can smell his shaving cream.

"Well before," she starts, "Before, I probably woulda said it's a bit too grisly for me. But, well, now…" she trails off, thinking. "It's exciting."

"Exciting?" He laughs. "Not enough excitement in your life, is that it?" It's a leading question. Is she going to follow?

She thinks so. This conversation, this man, is making her feel good. She needs that this morning. "Yeah, well, I guess there are lots of different types of excitement, right? They all set your heart pounding, whether it be for good or bad reasons…" she trails off, now unsure. He's holding her gaze.

"Well, as long as your heart's pounding, you know you're alive, right, Carol?" He pitches this last bit low, so the others can't hear. She's pretty sure she's alive, at this moment. Her heart sure feels like it. He smiles at her one last time, turns back to the group. Daryl's just joined them. Sasha is smiling at Carol in a knowing way.

"Hey, man," Tyreese greets Daryl, who squints and grunts. He's got both hands shoved down into his pockets. "Wanna join us? Sasha, Rick, Glenn Carl and me – we're gonna clear the fences of geeks, then set up reinforcements."

Daryl looks at him impassively for a second. Glances over at Carol so quickly it's nearly as if it never happened. "Yeah, alright. Was just workin' out a few ideas this mornin' on it, anyway. We got a few more willin' and able bodies to help us out?"

Tyreese turns towards her. "Carol? Interested in some geek bashing this fine morning?"

Before she can reply, Beth stumbles out into the yard, her blond hair dancing around her flushed face. "Carol!" She gasps. "Carol! Thank god. Daddy needs you, right now! It's Marie – she's gone into labor. It's so early, the baby's turned wrong. He needs you to help 'im out!"

"Take me to them, Beth," she gasps, her very-living heart pounding in her chest. _No more dead children_, she thinks. _No more grieving parents. _She glances back, catches Tyreese's eye. His worried face lifts encouragingly at her. She looks over at Daryl. He's also following her departure intently. _No more broken hearts. _

_Oh, Carol, _she thinks as she dashes after Beth. _You fool. _


	5. Imperfect Gifts

**A/N: You lovely readers and reviewers. Thanks so much for your enthusiasm and your faith that I'll do right by these characters. This story's been a different experience than my other Caryl fics, and I am really enjoying it. So glad you are too! ~ CeeCee**

It is hours later, after they've extinguished the dull, idiot life from hundreds of walkers, and the stench and black smoke of the resulting bonfire still hovers in the thick late-summer air over the prison. They are all filthy and exhausted, but as Daryl looks around at the group, trying to ignore the dull throb in his weary shoulders, he realized they look satisfied, too. _A job well done_, he thinks. He wonders again, as he has all day, how Carol's far more delicate job is going.

After she and Beth's hasty retreat to the laboring Marie and Hershel, Carl brought his sister inside, returning with a promise that someone from the prison would let them know as soon as there was an answer about the baby – and the mother. They are all still waiting.

"It's no good," Glenn says quietly, "Marie wasn't due until the end of September, she said. Maggie was talking to her a bit last week." Daryl leans silently against the prison wall, watches a shadow cross his friend's face. "A baby, six weeks early, back in the day? At a hospital, with those little ovens they put 'em in and everything? It would have a chance. Here? It's like a really bad joke…" Glenn trails off, shakes his head.

"You don't know, man," Tyreese speaks up. "You never know. I've seen a lot – a LOT – of shit go down in the past year, good and bad, that doesn't make sense or defies what you'd normally call logic. Until we hear otherwise, there's always a chance for that baby."

Daryl finds himself silently agreeing with him. _Like Merle, _he thinks. _Merle wasn't no miracle baby, but who would have thought? _He clears his throat, shakes his head before the tears can betray him.

"Tyreese is right," Rick says quietly. "Judith is proof." He pauses, looks over at Glenn, before he can speak. "Yeah, Judith is proof, even though Lori's not." He looks up, as they all do, hearing hurried footsteps at the doorway. Maggie appears. She looks worn, but she's got a smile on her face.

"They're okay," she breathes. "Marie and the baby, they're okay." Glenn jumps up, and Maggie sags into him, shaking, swiping tears from her cheeks. "He's the smallest thing I've ever seen, but he's hollerin' away up there." She laughs through her tears.

"Thank god," Sasha pipes up. "So it's a boy?" She's grinning up at Maggie from her spot on the ground.

"Yeah. Real little guy with tons of dark hair. Marie is calling him David, after his father," Maggie's pale face is clearing. "It was unbelievable, what Daddy and Carol did. They were just…tireless. Relentless. I don't think either of them left Marie all day, just easing the baby around, talkin' Marie through the labor, the pain, the blood…" She trails off, her face worried. She looks at Rick. "They did what I couldn't."

Rick walks over, takes her hand. "I don't ever want to hear you talk like that again, Maggie," he says quietly. "You saved my daughter. You did your best by Lori. She knew, and she made the sacrifice for Judith. Judith is here because of you and her brother." Rick's eyes are shining with tears, and Daryl looks away, wondering why they're all so willing to blame themselves for the dead.

oooOOOooo

He walks up to her cell, a plate of food in each hand. He brings her what he can.

She's just sitting on her bunk, staring into space. She's changed into a fresh shirt, but he can still see the red-brown stains on her small, strong fingers and forearms.

"Hey," he greets her. "Thought you might be hungry." He hands her a plate.

"Hey," she smiles up at him, taking it. "Thanks. I walked right through the kitchen, didn't even think to grab something." She somewhat gracelessly starts shoveling her meal in. "I have no idea what this is, but it's fabulous."

"So, another rug rat," he grumbles. He can here David's distant, thin wails a few rooms away. Maggie's right, the kid's got a set of lungs on him.

"He's a born warrior, I think, that one," she shakes her head, wipes her hand across her mouth, looks back up at him, hovering in the doorway. "Sit." She scoots over, making room.

He complies, and they finish the rest of their simple meal in silence. He doesn't understand why, but sitting here with her, in this grimy cell, their legs touching and their breathing aligned, is so much. So much more than he could have expected for himself. Maybe that's why more than this terrifies him.

Two little girls appear in the doorway. One is the kid with the black braids from Carol's knife class.

"Ellie! Sarah! Hi ladies," she passes her plates over to him, rises. He can feel her exhaustion. He also knows she'd never turn a child away. "What can we do for you?"

"Hi Carol," Sarah's got two missing front teeth and short blond hair. "Ellie want to ask you something." The kid pokes the other one. "Go on, ask her."

Ellie gazes up at Carol. The kid looks like she's about to bust out crying. "Carol? Did you – did you stop teaching the knife class because I was no good? Because I wouldn't learn it right?" And now the tears come, rolling down the little, crumpled face.

Carol immediately kneels down, pulls the sobbing girl close. "Oh, honey, no. Not at all. There was no class today because Marie's baby, David, was born, and I was helping Hershel out. Being born is hard work, and David was a little early. He needed some extra help." She holds the little girl until her sobs taper off to hiccups.

"So…you'll still teach us?" Ellie's splotchy face is starting to look less worried.

"Of course I will," Carol soothes. "It might be a few days, until we know for sure that Marie and baby David are doin' alright, but then we'll be back to learning. Okay?" Both kids nod solemnly. "Now, why don't you guys go to the kitchen and see if there are any extra cookies?"

"Kids," Carol shakes her head, sits back down next to him. "You gotta admire their weird logic."

"She thought it was her fault," he muses.

"Yeah," Carol shakes her head leans back against the wall. He follows suit. "It's that combination of a child's ego – they're still figuring out that the world does not begin and end with them – insecurity and interpretation of the facts. They come up with some real doozies about the world."

He nods, thinking of the blame he's shouldered in the name of his mother, Merle. How much of it was just reading the facts poorly? He's pulled from his thoughts by a warm weight on his shoulder. Her forehead. She's fallen asleep.

He eases her down, sets her head on the flat pillow at the head of the bunk. He gently places the sheet over her rising and falling ribcage. He wants to brush his hand over her greying curls, but he's not brave enough. Not nearly.

He silently takes the plates from the small bunkside table, stands in the doorway. Watches her for a moment. Considers. Takes the wrapped bar of luxury soap from his pocket, places it on the table. The flowered paper it's wrapped in is soiled and worn at the corners, but the sweet, sharp fragrance of the soap fills the tiny cell.

It is an imperfect gift, but it's what he has to offer.


	6. Soapy Heels

**A/N: Um. Ok, guys. So, you're all awesome, but I think you might have to take leap of faith with me for a few chapters. I am really, really enjoying exploring these characters in this way, and the theme of this story is opportunity, those we miss, those we take, and, even, realizing that there IS one available (and what we choose to do with this knowledge). Also, this chapter is a bit dark. But…don't panic. I promise Caryl is safe. Even if it doesn't seem so, at this moment. ~CeeCee**

**NB: I try very hard to reply individually to each and every one of my fabulous reviewers. I am behind, alas, due to a busy weekend. I have read and cherished each and every one. So thank you, thank you, thank you. **

**Lyrics from "The Chain" used herein ©Ingrid Michaelson.**

She wakes with a start in the early morning hours on her cot, covered with the thin sheet. She doesn't really remember falling asleep. Yesterday was all work, and strain, and encouragement for Marie. Cleaning off David's impossibly tiny, vulnerable form. Stumbling on instinct back to her room. Then Daryl, and food, and those little girls, who'd gotten their facts all jumbled. _Like we all do sometimes…_she thinks, rolls over onto her side. She must have drifted off while they were sitting here. She knows that's okay, that he hadn't minded.

She sits up, looking out the high windows at the gibbous moon. It's early, and she is still aching with the physical and mental stress of yesterday, but she is alert. She glances over at the small table next to her bed. Next to the book Tyreese picked up for her is a smaller, rectangular item. Curious, she leans over and picks it up. The familiar scent reaches her before she can discern what it is.

She grins, exams the pretty but grimy wrapper, brings it up to her nose, sniffs. Squeezes it, to confirm it's real. A gift, left when she was unawares. She looks over at the crime novel again, then at the soap sitting cupped in her gore-stained hands. One man had brought her exactly what she'd asked for. The other had left a piece of himself, unable to share it with her directly.

David and Marie will need her attention and care the next few days. She stands up, clutches her soap, and grabs a towel. It's time to start the day.

oooOOOooo

Marie dies five days after giving birth to her son.

Carol and Hershel, and Maggie, and Donna, one of the elderly women from Woodbury whose aunt had been a midwife, do everything they can. It is not enough. Marie burns with a fever that gets hotter and hotter, her face dry and her eyes listless. She stops asking for the baby after the third day.

"Sepsis," Hershel sighs.

"Childbed fever," echoes Donna, touching Marie's now peaceful face tenderly, before pulling a sheet over it.

Carol doesn't care what it's called. All it is, is another dead mother. Another orphan. She stands, her back and knees popping angrily. She gazes down at the sheeted figure and knows she just needs to get away from this little cot, which has seen birth and death in less than a week. She turns walks, runs, then sprints into one of the fenced-in side yards in the back of the prison. Her momentum brings her to the chain-link fence, which she gripes hard enough to hurt. The pain goes perfectly with her anger.

Maggie's breathless voice behind her. "Carol, Carol," she feels the other woman's hand on her shoulder spinning her around. Carol holds her in a fierce embrace, her heart thudding, her eyes dangerously dry. She doesn't have any tears left, it seems. Maggie clutches her back, like a drowning woman. She, too, is dry-eyed, but shaking violently. They stand there for endless minutes, just hanging onto each other.

"I'm pregnant," Maggie murmurs against Carol's shoulder.

Something icy drips into the pit of Carol's stomach. She collects her feelings, tries a smile on, before leaning back to look the younger woman in the eye. "That's wonderful. And everything is going to be fine, for you and the baby."

"Promise?" Her eyes are enormous, begging, in her pale, tired face.

"Promise," Carol responds with a conviction made of paste and dreams. A bit of song pops into her head, a woman's mournful but hopeful voice:

_"So glide away on soapy heels, and promise not, to promise anymore…" _

"Promise," Carol whispers again, stroking her hair. "Promise."

oooOOOooo

She remains at the fence after Maggie returns to the prison. Carol knows Glenn is on a supply run with Daryl, Michonne and a few of the Woodbury folk. She wonders distractedly how long she'll think of them as "Woodbury folk". They are allies and friends, but not quite like the tatter remnants of the group from the farm. Or even Michonne. They are still, for all intents and purposes, friendly strangers who happen to share close quarters.

_Speaking of which, _she thinks as Tyreese and his sister come into the yard, bearing grave-digging tools. They see her, raise their hands simultaneously in solemn greeting. They consult for a moment, and Sasha takes a large shovel from her brother. With a last thoughtful glance at Carol, her tall, slim figure turns and walks towards the makeshift graveyard in front of the prison. Tyreese jogs slowly over to where she is.

"Marie," he says. His big shoulders sag with the weight of the name.

"Yes," Carol sighs. "Yes. Here I was worried about the baby –"

"That kid? Have you heard him the past few days? He'll be just fine," Tyreese interrupts, grinning a little. She grins back, though it hurts to do so.

"Without his mother, his father…" she replies, trailing off. "Marie told us that David – big David, the baby's father – died last winter. It was right before they got to Woodbury. Got attacked in a car, got trapped. He told her to make a run for it. She didn't even know she was pregnant yet."

"It's sad," Tyreese says, and she can tell he means it. "It's sad. We forget, don't we? All of us, we have our own sad stories, our own tragedies. We sometimes forget, so does everyone else. All of us." He looks at her again. "We're all just tryin' to pick up the pieces, and muddle through."

"You're right," Carol shakes her head, grins hesitantly up at him. "I have to keep that in mind, when I start feelin' especially sorry for myself."

"There's no need for a woman as fine as you to feel sorry for herself," he replies softly. Her heart flutters beneath her ribcage, jumps up and out. Towards him? She's not sure. "And I mean 'fine' in every sense of the word." He finishes, holding her gaze, holding a door open. Waiting for her. Like a true gentlemen. He moves slightly close, so she can feel the warmth emanating from his body.

"I'd like to kiss you, Carol, if you are alright with that?"

She stifles a burst of nervous, terrified laughter. Kiss her. This man. This strong, good, good-looking, calm man wants to kiss her. She, who hasn't been touched sexually in nearly two years. Who hasn't been properly kissed, with passion and kindness, since she was in high school.

She nods. She is afraid. She is excited. _Here we go, _she thinks wildly. Nearly laughs again.

One arm circles her waist, and then, he is kissing her. With affection, with desire, and, she realizes, with skill. She sighs, allows herself to enjoy it. And she _is _enjoying it. Carol doesn't feel like laughing at all anymore. They break apart after a few minutes. Her hand flies to her mouth. It almost forgot that kissing was one of its jobs.

He regards her, grins a little. "Thank you, for trusting me, with that." Something on his face makes her realize he knows something about her. About her own sad story.

"Who told you about Ed?"

"Rick, but not more than he needed to get the point across," Tyreese replied. "I hope you don't feel like I was prying."

"I – I don't, not really," she pauses, looks up. He takes her hand. "I guess, I guess, I just – why?"

"Because, Carol," he replies. "Because I think, I believe, we could be very good to each other, if that's something you want. And I'm all about grabbin' the good when I see it nowadays."

"I have no idea what I want," she answers, the truth smacking her in the face. "No one's ever asked before."

He assesses her. "Now that's a real shame." He kisses her again, briefly. Something in her, deep in her gut and loins, responds with a loud voice, _More, more, me, me, I want more…_

"Think on it," he says. "I'm not going anywhere, 'less the walkers have other ideas for me." He smiles one last time, runs to join his sister in their grim task.

_More, _that little fire in her stomach is clamoring. Tyreese woke something up inside of her. She leans against the fence, completely spent, with an absurd mixture of grief and lust bubbling inside of her. _More…_

"Oh, shut up, a second," she says out loud, pressing her fingers to her kiss-swollen lips. And there, alone, talking to herself in the prison yard, Carol finally does begin to laugh.


	7. Remnants

**A/N: Trust. I promise. Like Carol…I promise. ;-) ~CeeCee**

**NB: In case it's unclear, this chapter takes place concurrently with Chapter 6. E.g., this is the run these guys are on when Marie dies, and Tyreese and Carol have their...erm…meeting in the yard. **

Supply runs: used to be, with the original group, they'd go every month. Take a few hours, out and back. Now with their growing (and let's face it, more compromised in terms of strength and durability) group, runs are near-weekly, all-day procedures. Findin' a spot or hittin' up a known one. Clearing or corralling walkers. Then loadin' up.

Daryl grunts, ignores his screaming back and aching shoulders, and heaves another box of supplies into the trunk of the car. Glenn passes him another, shifting the weight of stacked cans of vegetables, and he throws it insouciantly on top of the others. He slams down the hatchback, pushes his hair out of his face, lights a smoke.

"That's it," Glenn sighs. "Thank fuck." Daryl proffers his cigarettes at him. Glenn shakes his head, though from time to time, he'll take one. _Not that he needs one right now, _Daryl thinks. _He's jumped up as cat with a cup of coffee. _

Michonne and the Woodbury folks are getting ready to roll out. Daryl's about to hop on his bike when Glenn grabs him.

"Hey man, can you hang out her for a minute? I wanna go grab a few things," he gestures back to the store, and Daryl nods. "Guys! We'll catch up, go on. Need to secure a few things over here."

Michonne looks at both of them for a long moment. Daryl knows she doesn't believe a word of what Glenn's saying, but nods. "You got exactly fifteen minutes until I turn around for you guys. There's a reason why we do this in a large group, and it ain't for loading the cars," she says, then raises her voice. "Okay, let's head out!"

The two men watch the three other cars grind up dust and debris, Daryl squinting at Glenn through cigarette smoke. Somethin's up. Sure as shit. Glenn runs his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. _Dude is freakin' out, _he finishes the smoke, tosses the butt. Looks away. He notices, sometimes it's easier for people to say whatever it is they gotta say if they don't have to look you in the eye. Does the trick.

"Maggie's pregnant," Glenn coughs out. "I wanna go grab her some stuff she needs, vitamins, stuff like that."

Something in Daryl goes cold. He thinks on Lori, on Li'l Asskicker growing up without her momma. Thinks about Marie and the wailing ball of life that's David, back at the prison. About Carol's hands, stained with a mother's pain and labor. About Carol's face, marked with a mother's pain and loss.

"Didn't know you had it in you, Kemosabe," he reaches out, roughly shakes Glenn's hand. "Doesn't Hershel have all that stuff back at the prison?"

"Yeah, man," Glenn is still gripping his hand. Looks like he's about to laugh and cry at the same time. "Yeah, but we're not telling Hershel yet. He'll be happy, I think, but really worried too…" Glenn trails off. "Maggie was thinking of telling Carol. Said she really just killed it the other day with Marie, was cool as cucumber, keep her calm. Made her feel like maybe, if Marie and David came out of it alright, Maggie and our baby will be fine too. Maggie's younger than Marie, in better shape. There's no reason everything won't be fine, right?" He's nearly begging.

"You better hurry up," Daryl tells him. "Before Michonne comes back with that sword of hers and starts swingin'." He gives him a slap on the back. Glenn walks towards the sliding doors of the super mart, then turns back, gives Daryl a look he can't read.

"This is probably none of my business," Glenn clears his throat, looks ready to run, but stands his ground. "Damn, I know it's not, but we've known each other for awhile, and you're a friend, Daryl. I'd trust you with my life."

"Shit," he scoffs, but he's pleased. He's also tensed, waiting for the rest of what Glenn has to say. Part of him knows, already. The part that's been waiting, pissed and forlorn, outside of a closed door the past few weeks.

"Speaking of Carol," Glenn says, waits for a reaction. Daryl gives him nothing. Spits, lights another cigarette. Ignores his quickening heart. Glenn takes his silence for consent, continues, "Speaking of Carol. You might…want to move on that, sooner rather than later, if you get me?"

Daryl stares down at yellow-lined pavement of the deserted parking lot. At his feet are a sun-faded candy bar wrapper and a severed, ancient-looking forearm. He kicks at both, sends them flying.

"Look, man," Glenn's voice is soft and serious. "Maggie wouldn't have looked twice at someone like me before this all went down. It's all different, now. Anything we _think_ we know about ourselves, all that shit we carry around with us, it's all changed. Hell, I know I'm a different man, a better man, than I was two years ago. And so are you."

He risks glancing up at Glenn, who's standing there, arms folded. Daryl knows he took a chance, saying all this to him. He risks something of his own, a question:

"How did it start, you and Maggie?"

Glenn looks trapped. "Well, I mean, it was a few days after we got to the farm…and we had sex in the pharmacy in town. And look, I am not suggesting that's what you do, but my point is –"

"You better hurry the hell up and get your shit, before I leave you here on your own," Daryl nearly growls, flushing. _Goddamit. _

"Alright, alright,"Glenn holds his hands up in surrender. "All I'm saying is, Maggie presented me with an opportunity, one I never expected or counted on. And now I can't imagine life without her. Okay? So…just…don't blow an opportunity, you know? Or someone else might take it for you."

And he turns, hurries inside. Leaving Daryl to contemplate the remnants and scraps of the old world, around and inside of him.


	8. Holding On

**A/N: This chappie is also Daryl's. It's also a little short. It happens, sometimes. ~ CeeCee**

**"I'll never say that I'll never love;**

**But I don't say a lot of things." ~ The Chain, © Ingrid Michaelson**

**"One can acquire everything in solitude except character." ~ Stendhal**

The three other cars are there, bunched up at the reinforced gates of the prison like patient, waiting dogs. Michonne is standing to the side, shading her eyes. Looking towards, what Daryl sees now, are people slowly gathering, walking towards the shallow indentation in the ground that can be nothing other than a fresh grave.

Daryl walks up to the metal gate, pounds to be let in. Glenn leaps out of his car, pulling his hair, staring at the group gathering in the late afternoon haze, runs over to stand beside Michonne. He looks desolate, and Daryl knows why: the grave is likely Marie's. _So many dead mommas,_ he thinks, and it hurts. Just hurts, so badly.

The gates grind open, and Carl is standing there, with a few other teens. The cars, except Glenn's, move solemnly into the prison yard, and Daryl wheels his bike past the gates, kicks down the stand. Glenn wanders in on foot, completely ignoring the car, which is still running. He looks as if he's been punched in the gut. Daryl gestures to one of the other teens, who drives it through so they can close the gate.

"Marie," Carl says, kicking the ground, sending pebbles flying. "Having the baby here made her sick. 'S what Hershel and Carol say. But I dunno," he squints over at Daryl, then glances behind him at the graveside. "I'm thinkin' – I'm thinkin' maybe we're just not s'posed to try that anymore. Try havin' babies. Someone always dies." The kid's face is the color of spoiled milk under his freckles as he stares at Daryl, who hopes to hell Glenn didn't hear him.

"C'mere," Daryl mutters, and Carl trudges over. He roughly grabs Carl's collar, lifts him onto his tiptoes. "Don't ever, _ever_ want to hear you talk like that again, got it?"

The boy struggles, wriggling, his face a mask of fury and sorrow. "Fuck you, Daryl!" And Daryl can see it's the memory of his momma that he's really struggling with. He drops his hand and wraps his arm around Carl's shoulders in a rough, half-hug. They stand there for a few moments, these two who lost their mothers as boys, but trying, struggling, so hard, everyday, to be men.

oooOOOooo

He and Glenn move silently towards the graveside. Nearly the whole prison has gathered, standing in little clumps of humanity. Carol is on the near side of the crumbly dirt hole in the ground, surrounded by her knife skills students. The tough blond kid that wanted to learn how to use his bow is sobbing inconsolably into Carol's tee shirt. Her other hand is held by Ellie, who dark hair surrounds her shoulders like a cape.

Glenn pushes past him, touches Carol on the shoulder. She turns, dry-eyed, face awash with sorrow…and something else. Something that sets Daryl's heart pounding, but he's not sure why. Something in the set of her mouth and the tilt of her head.

"Where is Maggie?" Glenn clutches at her arm like a drowning man.

"Inside," Carol says, her beautiful eyes serene. "With the baby." She let's go of Ellie's hand momentarily to place it on Glenn's face. "We'll do everything right for her Glenn, please believe me." He nods, makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob. Grabs her hand briefly drops it, runs towards the prison.

"Carol?" Ellie is looking up expectantly at her, hand out. Carol clasps it again in her own, looks at him.

"Glenn told you?" She says quietly, as people finish gathering, and he nods. Hershel stands at the head of the grave, his worn Bible in one hand. Next to him are Tyreese and Sasha, waiting with their shovels discreetly places behind them. The brother is watching he and Carol with curiosity. Carol notices, and sends a small smile in his direction. He smiles back. Daryl feels like someone's set him spinning, faster and faster, on a merry-go-round and won't let him off.

"Do you want to hold my hand?" Ellie is looking up at him. "You look sad. If you hold someone's hand, it feels better, less sad," she finishes solemnly, and her small fingers curl around his grimy palm. Daryl accepts them cautiously. She smiles up at him, then at Carol. "See what I mean? And I'm lucky, I have _two _people holding my hands."

Now Carol is looking over at him, the little girl's arms stretched between them. She strokes Conner's unruly hair with her other hand. Now her smile, _that _smile, is all for him, at this moment.

"You're right, Ellie," Carol agrees, but she's still looking right at him. "When you're holding someone's hand, it's much better." She looks down now, and the kid is grinnin' ear to ear, pleased. Then her eyes land on the grave, where Hershel is about to begin, and her face clenches. She squeezes Daryl's hand tighter, and he squeezes gently back. Her smile is wobbly, but it's back.

"It makes you less sad," she says again, staring at the grave. "Doesn't it?"

He feels the kid's warm, trusting hand in his own, feels Carol's eyes on him, like two warm weights.

"Yeah," he coughs out. "Yeah, you're right, I guess it does." And he means it.


	9. Bubbles

**A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you for your thoughtful, enthusiastic reading and reviewing. I am WAY behind in responding to everyone, but I will catch up, I promise. Also, the next few days are very busy IRL so I may not post again until Sunday, but I will try my darndest. :) ~ CeeCee**

The group slowly disperses as Tyreese and Sasha fill the hole that holds David's mother. _How many gravesides? How many Bible verses? _Carol wonders as Conner leans heavily on her left side and Ellie grips her right hand tightly. A few of the other kids stand around her, and she thinks vaguely that she ought to get them inside for dinner.

She also has to go check on the baby, whom she left with Maggie. _But Tyreese was right, _she looks over at his strong back flexing with each shovelful of dirt scooped onto the grave. They are nearly finished. _David is going to be fine…but what about Maggie and Glenn's child? What about _these _children? _She looks at the little group of them clustered around she and Daryl and realize that, in all likelihood, not all of them will not see their eighteenth birthday.

"I'm hungry," Sarah says suddenly.

"Me too, me too!" A few of the other kids pipe up. They are tired and out-of-sorts. Carol understands how they feel.

"Then best we get you all inside and see what's cookin'," Daryl growls softly, and the kids nod eagerly. She smiles gratefully over at him. He nods, looks away. _Lest he acknowledges more than gratitude, _she muses. She understands him better than she understands herself, sometimes. _What do you want, Carol? _At this moment? She wants hot food and her warm bed. _How warm? _Another voice, the one that reared itself up for the first time in a long time earlier this afternoon asks. She glances speculatively over at Daryl, who is still turned away, and it asks again: _What do you want, Carol? _

For the second time today, she rudely shoves the voice aside and begins, with Daryl's help, herding the kids towards the prison. She realizes immediately that Conner, overcome with hysteria and exhaustion, isn't going to make it on his own. She struggles to support the child, but suddenly he is lifted off his feet, slung easily, but with care, over Tyreese's shoulder. He passes his shovel wordlessly to her as Conner lays his flushed cheek on his white tee shirt, puts his arms around Tyreese's thick neck. _A little comfort. That's all we all really want…_

"I got 'im," Tyreese's voice is husky, and Carol realizes his son would be Conner's age if he were here. _Freddie_. "You guys take the rest of the kids up, I got this guy."

"Thanks," Carol whispers, places her hand on his arm. Feels Daryl, behind her. Watching. "Thanks, for everything, today."

"Anytime," he gives her a warm look, one full of promise. Hoists Conner more securely in his arms, and heads towards the prison.

"Ready?" Daryl nearly barks this at her as she watches Tyreese carry the boy up the gentle slope, towards the prison.

"I'm ready," she begins herding the kids forward. Ellie is still holding his hand, and he's letting her. "I'm ready, are you?" She weights the words, nearly regrets them, once they fly out of her mouth. They float, like heavy bubbles, between the two of them. She glances over at him. He catches her eye. They walk in silence, listening to her students chatter with each other. She assumes he will just ignore the question.

But.

"For what?" He finally asks. They are nearly at the door of C block, and the kids run ahead, clamoring for dinner. They are alone with the setting sun. He kicks at the dust in the yard, lights a cigarette. He doesn't run. His body is folded into itself, and his isn't looking at her. But he doesn't run, like he did last week, after her knife class.

It's _she_, in fact, who ignores _his_ question. "Thanks for the soap," she says quietly, walks towards him. Her heart is the roar of the ocean in her ears, the sound of a thousand drums beating _allegro_.

"Yeah," he looks up at her; a smile lands briefly on his lips. Flutters away. "I'm sorry about Marie." He says.

She sighs. "Me too," she pushes back self-recrimination, "Especially given Maggie and Glenn…"

"He's freaked," he replies, tosses the cigarette butts, grinds it out.

"He has reason to be," she sighs. "I made a promise to Maggie today I can't necessarily keep."

"You'll do your best," he states this with certainty.

"That might not be enough," she responds.

"Hell, that's all we got, right?"

She nods, and they both lean against the wall, in companionable silence. It feels almost as it did before, this quiet communion they two have. Unfortunately, now, there is so much more that's unspoken, bubbling up around them, hanging in the air. One of them needs to move slightly, to set them all popping. When he speaks, it startles her. Usually, she is the one to break the silences.

"Caught Carl at the gate, talking nonsense about people not tryin' to have babies anymore," his face is becoming harder to read in the dwindling light of dusk.

She laughs ruefully. "That won't happen. That would be a world without hope. And there's no stronger human need than for hope…'cept, maybe, doing what it is we do to make babies." He grunts noncommittally.

"What, you don't agree?" She suddenly feels like ribbing him, a little. "You were the one who gave me that soap. I smell pretty good now, see?" She leans towards him, and he looks up, for a split second, away again. And she sees that he is happy, that he is relishing her teasing. Something in her heart bursts open, towards him. Her frustration and annoyance at him, at herself, these past few weeks dissipates into the air around her.

_What do you want, Carol? _

She isn't quite sure yet. But she's getting there.


	10. Nyquil and Model Airplanes

**A/N: An author should never pick favorites, but...I admit...I loved writing this chapter. I hope you enjoy reading it as much. ~CeeCee**

The day after Marie's funeral dawns cool and bright. He stands in the yard in the forgiving blues and pinks of sunrise, waiting for the rest of the hunting party. Rick and he had discussed going out specifically for meat not for immediate consumption, but that they could smoke and cure: summer would be over soon, and they would need winter stores. Planning, for everyone's future, for the survival of the group.

Being worried about his own future - and the future of other people - was still a new thing for him. Everything up until the moment when he realized that Rick, and the ragged group of Atlanta survivors, _actually needed and relied on him_, had been all about gettin' by. The next meal, the next smoke, the next shady deal of Merle's. Never thinkin' more than two steps, two days, or two weeks into the ahead. Never worried about investing too much time into much of anything. Except...

oooOOOooo

He remembers one summer, about ten years ago. He got sick as a dog, a summer cold or some shit. The air in the busted trailer he and Merle were holed up in danced with dust and reeked of week-old beer. He tried to tough it out but he finally got so fed up with the rumble in his chest and the pathetic weakness in his limbs, he asked Merle to grab him some Nyquil or something on his way out the door.

Merle returned in the wee hours of the morning, completely hopped up on crystal, carrying a wad of cash, and a crapload of cheap plastic bags filled with a bizarre assortment of sellable and useless items he'd stolen from a convenience store in town. He dumped all of it onto the nicked and singed table in the middle of the tiny, cramped space they called the living room.

Daryl lifted his heavy head from the scratchy couch and peered with bleary eyes at the bounty in front of him. Stacks of pilfered cartons of cigarettes sat next to plastic bags of pretzels, lighters in crayon colors, boxes of cheap toys and Hostess cupcakes.

"Gonna sell those," Merle pointed at the cigs. "Make a li'l more quick cash. Headin' out with the boys for a coupla days. You better stay here, little brother, you look like the backend of a donkey. Can't have you crampin' our style. Papa Merle needs to get _laid_." His eyes were glittering with cheerful bad will and the drugs.

He was nearly at the door, heading out for god knew how long (to Daryl's immense and completely unacknowledged relief) when he turned back and practically chucked a small bottle at Daryl, who wasn't quite quick enough to catch it, but batted it onto the couch, avoiding a blacked eye.

"What the hell, Merle?!"

"You asked me for that, little brother," Merle smiled liked a boa in the midst of digesting a bunny. "Was gonna get you a fifth of Wild Turkey instead, but I got what you asked for. 'Cuz that's the kinda lovin' brother I am." And then he is gone, with his misbegotten wad of cash and cache of cigarettes.

Daryl grabs the bottle and groans in relief. His Nyquil. He cracks the bottle open, chugs half of it. Collapses back onto the sorry excuse for a sofa. Passes out for a day and a half.

oooOOOooo

When he wakes up, he's aware of two things: he feels almost human again, and Merle's still gone. Early morning or late afternoon light seeps in the trailer's small, grimy windows. He gets up, takes a piss, grabs a beer from the fridge. Sits back down and realizes he's ravenous. He rips open the closest bag of junk food, devours it. Opens another. He starts sifting through all of the crap littering the table and the floor.

"What is all this shit, Merle?" He says to the empty trailer. The meth went shopping when his brother robbed the bodega the other night. The only things of value he seemed to have grabbed were the cash and the cigs. The rest of it is cheap junk. Daryl is about to lay back down when he notices a small box, about the size of a humidor, bearing a colored drawing of an old-fashioned crop-duster in flight. He picks it up, remembering the buzzing planes from his childhood dumping dangerous, but beautifully colored, clouds of poison onto the waiting fields below.

It's a model plane kit. He rips it open.

It's the whole shebang. Forty thousand balsa wood parts, bright, oily paint in tiny, connected plastic cups. Instructions in such miniscule typeface, he's not quite sure it's even English. He looks at all the pieces, the blobs of paint waiting patiently in their secure containers, the instructions written in Egyptian hieroglyphs.

He lays down, closes his eyes. Opens one. The stuff is still sitting on the edge of the table. He sits back up. Sighs a little. Pushes everything else off of the surface. And gets to work.

oooOOOooo

He thinks it takes him, in fits and starts, about four days to finish it. He's not entirely sure: the time he spends building the tiny plane is an odd mix of intense concentration and a haze of Nyquil, beer and the remnants of his summer cold. Right after he finishes painting the blue star on the side of the red body of the 'duster, he looks down at his feet. No less than a dozen bags of pretzels and chips litter the rug.

He puts it down, to dry. It looks so small and nearly perfect, sitting there. He reaches one finger out, spins the inch-long propeller. It moves. So does something light, in his heart. He lies back on the couch, folds his hand on his stomach. Stares at the plane for a long time, before drifting off, a small smile on his face.

oooOOOooo

Merle crashes back into the trailer, shakes him awake. He's not alone. Several of his compatriots are with him, and they are all reeling drunk. It's like having four rhinos running around inside a tin can. Daryl can't even think strait over Merle's cackling and his own fuzzy head, but his eyes dart immediately to where the plane was resting.

It is on the floor.

In colored slivers, like confetti after the party's over.

oooOOOooo

His thoughts are interrupted by a large group emerging from the prison. He realizes quickly that it's actually two groups: his own, the hunters: Glenn, Michonne, Rick, a few others. They have been joined by Sasha, her brother, Maggie, Carl and Carol, who are going back to work on the perimeter fences.

As the hunting party gather, Carol raises her hand to him, smiles brightly. She and her group head towards the back of the prison, and she looks around once again, to wave. She's walking with Tyreese, who leans over and says something close, in her ear. She bursts into laughter, whacks the big man's arm. Something turns in his gut.

"Like I said," Glenn is at his elbow, startles him. "Like I said, man. Tick tock, right?" He's looking at the pair as well.

Daryl doesn't respond immediately. He's thinking of a crushed plane that never flew. But...but, goddammit. He loved building that thing, piece by goddamn piece, in the silence and calm of his own space. Sure, he didn't get it entirely right, but it was _his. _Who cares if it got crushed to shit? What matters is that he built it. That he tried. That it had been beautiful and imperfect, even for a little while.

He finally turns to Glenn. Looks him in the eye. "I hear you. Tick-fuckin'-tock."


	11. Mending Fences

They work through the morning, stopping for lunch when the sun is a hazy silver coin at the apex of the sky. It's a tedious but dangerous project: repairing any weak spots or snarls in the perimeter fence with whatever patchwork replacements they can scrounge. It requires both patience and attention. Pointless to do a shoddy repair job; hard to concentrate with the dead trying to claw your face open while you do so. They work in teams, with two or three on walker alert, while two or three others set to repairs. She and Sasha stab, slash and slice as necessary while Carl and Tyreese work on the fence.

"Okay, that's it. I need a break," Tyreese swipes at his drenched face with a paisley handkerchief, leans back. Nods at Carl who stretches. Both abandoned their signature headwear as they toiled over the fence, and now they pull them back on in unison, grinning at each other.

"That's right, man," Tyreese stands, stretches. "No reason not to exert your style, even in a zombie apocalypse. Feel me?" Puts his hand out to Carl.

"Yeah, man, I feel you," Carl slaps his much smaller hand into his, attempts a serious expression that's so earnest, Carol glances away lest she crack a smile the boy might mistake for teasing.

"Gotta look fly for all the ladies, right?" Tyreese glances over at Carol, his eyes twinkling with a combination of something light-hearted and something a bit more serious. She feels heat rising to her face that has nothing to do with the midday sun. She thinks of the night before, leaning into Daryl, catching a glimpse of the pleasure in his eyes at their renewed rapport, the warmth in her belly at the small grin on his face.

"Oh my lord," Sasha's dry voice interrupts her thoughts. She rolls her eyes at her brother, who shrugs, winks at Carol. She surprises herself by winking back. "Who wants a sandwich?"

The group grabs their packed lunches, scatter in the yard. Carol seats herself in the shade of an old equipment shed, resting her back on the warm metal. Maggie walks by, looking flushed.

"I hate to say this, but I think I better go in," she sits gracelessly down next to Carol, pitching her voice low. "I am about to pass out."

"Yeah, you better," she places her hand on the younger woman's pink but dry cheek. "I appreciate you're trying to go about your business, but the first few months can throw you for a loop. Any morning sickness yet?"

"I barfed in the middle of the night. Didn't have much breakfast," Maggie shakes her head.

"You're probably dehydrated. You really ought to get inside, get some water, lie down. Have someone find you some crackers," she looks closely at Maggie's face, assessing her.

"I'm okay, Carol," Maggie places her hand over Carol's, which is still resting on her warm cheek. "Not fabulous, I'll admit it, but okay." She pauses, pulls a shaky breath. "I want this baby, Glenn's baby. I'm scared shitless, but I want to do this the best I can. Be the best momma I can." Her eyes brim with tears, spill over, she laughs, pushing them away.

"That'll happen too," Carol smiles at her, helps brush her tears away. "You'll be cryin' over a whole lotta nothing the next few months. Don't worry about it."

Maggie grips her hands tightly. "How do you bear it, Carol? How do you keep going?"

_Sophia. _"That's exactly it. I bear it. I bear _her. _I just carry her with me. She's just there. Always. There's nothing else to do." And now her eyes are filling with tears from the bottomless well with her daughter's name on it, and she swipes them away. "I had her with me for almost twelve years. Twelve years full of days that were brighter, happier, more _purposeful_ because she was there. I could have done more, I could have, I _should _have been so much better of a mother to her. I should have been a stronger person, a stronger woman, a better example. But I wasn't. I was weak. I thought I deserved all that Ed doled out, plus some. So I carry that, too." She stops, looks at her hands, which are shaking. She's never said that out loud before. But there it is, the ugly, flopping truth, writhing between them in the dust.

"Oh Carol," Maggie sighs.

"But," she gathers herself, because the truth is ugly, but it's a living thing, and so is she. "But what I also carry is the weight of her, staggering out of that barn. I thought I was literally going to die in the dust in your yard, Maggie. That my heart would just burst out of my chest and I would die. And, at that moment, I would have been happy to die, right there. But I didn't. And I had to get up, and put one foot in front of the other. So I did. And then I thought of her, and I wanted to do better than just that, then just getting by. That's how I bear it, Maggie: every day, I try to be the woman I should have been for my daughter. The woman I should have been for _myself_."

They are both crying now, kneeling in the dust of the prison yard, holding onto each other, oblivious to those around them. But they are also smiling, as the sun shines down on them, these mothers, mending fences.


	12. Tire Swing

**A/N: You all may be wondering what the $ *!&$ I was doing with the last few chapters. My feeling is, the past is like Merle's bounty from the convenience store: full of both useful information and sh*t that's just worthless hanging on to. But sometimes, you gotta pick something up, examine it, and determine if it's useful. Including pieces of yourself. ~ CeeCee**

**NB: This story is wrapping itself up, in my mind. I think we've got somewhere between 3-4 chapters to go…**

He hunts terribly. The focus he normally reserves for tracking and aiming his crossbow has honed in on something else: Carol, last night, leaning in, teasing, the distracting scent of lavender and mint. Carol, this morning, walking with Tyreese, laughing, joking, slapping his arm. Carol.

_Carol._

He's not sure that he saw her, _really _saw her until that day back at the Greene farm. When she threatened to take her friendship away. He's been thinking about that conversation (well, not sure you could call something so one-sided a "conversation", but…) a lot recently, he realizes. Because even in that moment nearly a year ago, he knew he'd be losing something valuable. And it wouldn't be down to walkers, or this unforgiving world they lived in now. It would be on him.

So he held on. He holds on. He holds on to what they have, which is unlike anything he's experienced in his life. A sense comfort he feels so deeply inside of himself, it has become a part of him. Something he's gotten used to and grown to rely on. Without knowing it.

He's been lulled by the easy nature of what they share, he understands now. Tyreese – or anyone else, truth be told - never crossed his mind as a threat to this balance until that morning after her knife class. For Daryl, all threats came from within. In his heart. In his capacity to care about her. To…love…her. To be…in love. With her. _Carol. _

For the past year, they've been swaying comfortably together, like holding onto a tire swing over a lake on the first day of summer. Just…swinging there. Happy to be flying through the air, because you know the water is going to be wonderful, but a complete shock to your system. But you can't swing forever. You have to jump.

Everything, with her, for him, has always been a matter of fear outweighing longing. He was happy to cling to their tire swing, to what he knew, because the water was cold and who knew how deep it was? Who knew what was lurking down there?

Not knowing terrifies him, and often obscures the desire he feels, seeing her smile or feeling the warmth of her hand on his arm. His fear is a real thing, a nasty, ragged creature comprised of self-loathing and bone-deep wanting. Fear has always beaten the delicate fingertips of desire away from his heart, but Daryl can feel them pressing, oh so gently, making themselves known, insistent.

Can't just swing forever, he understands.

It's terrifying to let go, but he must, because, because, because, more terrifying than jumping, plunging into unknown depths:

What if the water's gone? And he's left swinging, on his own?

oooOOOooo

He nods to the others as they stagger back into the prison, hauling their bounty. He wheels his bike around to the prison's machine shop, wanting to check a few things out. The bike is the last tangible connection to his brother. It hardly matters to him that, in life, Merle treated the damn thing with more care than he did people.

He sets to work on the bike, for the moment, thinking of nothing more than the task at hand. By nature, by nurture, he is a solitary creature most of the time, and a sort of contentedness washes over him as he tinkers in the late afternoon light, tossing his vest aside when he gets warm. He's just about to wrap things up and head to the kitchen to quell his rumbling stomach, when the kids show up.

The little girls. The one with the missing front tooth who cleared up the confusion about Carol's knife class. She has her arm slung around the other one's shoulder, the one with the black braids, who held his hand last night. So he would be less sad. Ellie.

He stands up, wipes the grease from his hands. Looks at them. Waits.

"Hi Daryl," Sarah pipes up. She's definitely the bolder of these two. "Can you help us?"

"What are you kids doin' out here?" _Come to think of it, how'd they _get _out here? _He and Rick we're going to have to assess how the doors were monitored in and out of the main living quarters.

"We need your help," Ellie echoes her friend, her face taken up by her solemn eyes.

"With what?" It comes out gruff, but he's curious. And willing to do almost anything these little scraps of humanity ask of him.

"You need to help us with the knives," Sarah says baldly. "Carol's starting the class again tomorrow, and we want to show her how good we are. Ellie and me."

Daryl looks down at them, standing there, huddled together. What are they? Seven, eight? They should be playin' with dolls or some shit. Whispering meaningless secrets to each other during recess. Learning their times tables, not how to wield weapons. And yet, here they are. Seeking help, for something that scares them. But something that's necessary, in this world. His heart squeezes again, and he sighs. Dinner can wait.

"Okay, let's go. We got about fifteen minutes of valuable daylight left. No messin' around. I ain't as nice as Carol," talking is hard around the lump in his throat.

"Yes you are!" Ellie exclaims, grinning broadly at him.

"I said no messing around," he growls at her, and she stops smiling, attempts looking serious. She turns and runs out into the yard with her friend, so she can't see the grin the pops up on his face.

It's time to jump.


	13. In the Doorway

**A/N: I just want to say again how much I appreciate all of the reviews and enthusiasm for this story. It's been really fun to write, and I've loved exploring the characters this way. I've always been a fan of the slow burn (in fiction and IRL) and this has really just been a treat to share with you all. This story's got two more long chapters: this one and the next, the last. I really hope you all enjoy both the journey and destination. ~CeeCee**

It's late and she's exhausted, but unable to rest. She'd hoped that the day's physical and emotional toll would allow her to collapse into a sound sleep, but to no avail. She walked Maggie back into the prison after they'd both calmed down, set her up in her cell with a cool compress, water, and soda crackers. Went to check on David, who was fussing healthily under Donna's careful ministrations. Ate a distracted dinner with some of the others, and headed for the haven of her little room.

Back in her cell, she tosses and turns, listening to the rustles, coughs and clinks of people bedding down for the night. When they first arrived, the noise and proximity of the Woodbury crew seemed invasive; now she finds the sound of so much humanity, nearby and prosaic, comforting. She gives up on the idea of sleep, sits up, leans against the wall behind her bunk. Turns the small oil lamp up, grabs the paperback mystery novel on her bedside, which she is nearly through.

A shadow appears in her doorway. Tyreese.

"Hello," she smiles at him, sets her book aside.

"Hey, Carol," he stands there, taking up the entire narrow entryway. "I've gotta head out on the overnight shift on the tower, but I wanted to see how you were doing."

"You're doing the _overnight_ watch? After all the work you did today? You'll be asleep on your feet," her brow furrows.

"Nah, I came in this afternoon, caught a few hours. Besides, the guy I'm filling in for sliced his leg open pretty bad today messin' around with one of the cars. Hershel told him he should stay off of it for a coupla days," he shrugs, walks into the small room. Looks for her approval before he takes a seat on the small chair in the corner by the cell's bars. Sighs contentedly, tips the chair back a little, grins at her. "But I appreciate your concern." They sit there for a moment, in a silence that isn't quite awkward, but charged.

"You're almost finished," he nods at the paperback on her cot. "I should have gotten you two. So, who did it?"

"Not quite sure," she smiles over at him. "I know it's _not _the butler, though." They both chuckle a little, and her heart is thudding pleasantly in her chest. He has presence, this man; his body, and the sheer heart of him, fill her cell.

"You doing okay?" His question startles her. "Saw you with Maggie in the yard earlier."

"Yeah, I'm doing okay," she pauses. "Sophia. She's just…always."

"Yeah, always," he nods, rubs his hand across his face. He suddenly looks very tired.

"What was Freddie like?" She asks, toying with the cover of her novel, folding the corner back and forth.

"Fred? He was a little wild cat, that one," Tyreese laughs, and she looks up at him again. "Don't know how many times I found him up a tree or scaling a fence. No fear, and all boy," he pauses, thinking, remembering. "But he had a quieter side, too, that started showing itself, right before…before. He loved to draw, he'd sit for hours working on something, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. I told him we'd run out of space on the fridge if he kept it up." He stands up for a second, rummages around in one of his pants' pockets. Pulls something out: a child's drawing, folded and placed in a zip lock bag. Hands it to her.

She takes it out, looks down, lets out a small noise. It is a colored pencil drawing, very well done, of the face of a woman a little younger than herself with long caramel-colored braids and a generous smile. Her long nose is punctuated with a small, star-shaped nose ring and a smattering of freckles.

"He was very talented. And she is lovely," Carol hands the drawing of his wife back to him. "What was she like?"

"Darlene?" He laughs, wipes at his eyes. "Darlene was…epic. Larger than life. She was a southern funk and blues singer. First time I saw her she was belting a Dusty Springfield cover at this hole in the wall. I nearly dropped my drink. My friends had to drag me away. 'Fraid I'd make a damn fool of myself."

She laughs a little. "And did you?"

"For over fourteen years," he laughs too, palming his tears away. "Thank goodness she suffered fools well." He stands, pockets his son's drawing. "The two of them, they were everything."

She stands as well. "And you had them, for awhile. That counts. That means something."

"You bet it does," he steps closer to her, and her stomach flips. "And the craziest thing of all, is the heart keeps comin' back for more. I'm still a fool, Carol."

He touches her face, and she stands on her toes, gives him a chaste but lingering kiss on his mouth. "Thanks for stopping by, to check on me."

"Anytime," he heads out, to guard duty. She stands there, thinks, _stay. _She knows how responsible he is, but she also knows if she said it, he would. He'd stay. The word is in her mouth, and it tastes delicious. She hears his footsteps receding, goes back to her small bed. Looks at her nightstand, where a sliver of soap rests in a nest of flowered paper. _Stay,_ she thinks again, chewing the word. _Stay. _

oooOOOooo

The next morning is as beautiful as the day before, cool and bright. She sets up her classroom, popping the dormer windows open to let in the breeze and the faint sound of birds. She's carefully arranging the weapons on the floor when the kids tumble in. Sarah and Ellie come in together, linked hands swinging. Thane, Daryl's crossbow apparently forgotten, kneels reverentially next to the array of weaponry, with the other two boys, Shai and Michael. The only one hanging back is Conner. He meanders over, but Carol can see he's unenthusiastic. She walks over, places her hand around his shoulder.

"What's up?" She whispers. He took Marie's death so hard. She remembers his exhausted form draped over Tyreese's shoulder.

"What's the point?" He says listlessly, no trace of his usual sass in his voice. "We're all gonna die anyway. Why bother?" The blank look on his face scares her more than any tears could.

She crouches in front of him, so she can look directly into his far-away eyes. "Conner. Yes, eventually, everyone dies. That's part of life. But…but if we all take care of each other, and learn to take care of ourselves, that's living. That's part of it. Opting out of doing stuff is a little like dying, because then you don't care about anything, see? Your heart is what reminds you that you're alive." She places her hand over his chest.

"But…but…it _hurts, _Carol. It hurts real bad," and suddenly, he is sobbing, crumpled against her. "M-M-Marie, she used – she used to sing – the songs my mom would, at night. Who's going to sing them now, Carol?" She strokes his curly head as the other kids stare, with the mouths hanging open a little.

Ellie walks over to them, pulls Conner by the hand. Holds it. "Come on over, Conner. Let's learn about the knives," she says encouragingly, and they kneel before the bounty of weapons solemnly.

"Okay," he concedes. "Okay, Ellie. But I want to try the biggest one first."

Carol stifles laughter and walks over to the group. _That's more like it. _

oooOOOooo

Ellie is handling the knife beautifully and - more importantly to Carol – without fear. It's almost like watching a different child from the one that shunned weapons a few weeks ago. She holds her breath as Ellie, with growing skill and confidence, wields the knife calmly. She and the class offer her a round of applause afterwards.

"That's it, guys," she announces. "Let's end on a high note. Great job, Ellie. See you all tomorrow. Go on and get some lunch, everyone." The boys scatter, but Ellie and Sarah help her pack up the knives carefully.

"Ellie, you did really well today," Carol tells her. She and Sarah exchange a glance, grinning at each other.

"We had help," Ellie replies, and Sarah rolls her eyes.

"He said not to tell, Ellie," she interjects. "He said it would be our little secret, so we could trounce the boys."

"Boys aren't here anymore, just Carol," Ellie responds.

"Who said?" Carol asks. They exchange grins again. "Come on, ladies, 'fess up."

"Daryl, silly," Sarah responds, as if it's obvious. Something warm blooms in Carol's chest. "We found 'im working on his motorcycle last night, but he stopped and helped when we asked him."

"Yeah, and he said he'd only help us for fifteen minutes, but it was _a lot _longer," Ellie nods, confirming. "He helped us _forever." _

"Is that right?" She responds, her voice lodged in her throat.

"And you know what else? He said no messin' around, because he wasn't as nice as you," Ellie continues. "And I told him that he _is. _And it's true," she pauses, looks up at Carol, then laughs. "Well, he's _almost _as nice as you. I fibbed a little."

She giggles some more, and Sarah joins in. Then Carol. Their laughter floats out of the windows, into the beautiful day.

oooOOOooo

She eats lunch with her students, then spends the rest of the day checking up on she and Hershel's patients: baby David, in the care of Donna and another elderly woman, Rose; Maggie, whose energy is still low but who looks and seems much better than she did yesterday, relegating herself to lighter tasks for the moment; and Jimmy, the guy who cut his leg whose watch shift Tyreese kindly took over. The stitches are setting nicely, but Hershel's right – he needs to be off the leg for a few days.

As she leaves Jimmy's cell, she nearly bumps into Tyreese himself.

"Hey," he says. "Hershel told me you were checking up on him. Wanted to give you this before I headed out on watch again." He hands her another mystery novel, this one very worn. "It's a good one. You'll never guess the ending."

"Maybe if I pass close enough attention, I can figure it out," she replies, taking the book. "Thanks."

There are people coming and going around them. He kisses her cheek. "See you tomorrow. Sleep well."

"You too," she responds, watching him go.

oooOOOooo

She brings her dinner plate with her to her cell and cracks open her new book as she's eating. She finishes, settles back against the wall, letting herself relax and becoming absorbed in the story. As she hears the bedtime noises start up around her this evening, she feels content. It's been a good day, a completely good day. Those are somewhat rare anymore.

She realizes suddenly someone is there, in her doorway. She looks up, and her heart leaps.

Daryl.

In her doorway.


	14. Stay

**A/N: So…this is it. End of the line. I am so sad to be finishing this story! But when it's done, it's done, right? Thank you all for your insight, your excitement, your reviews. It's great to be able to share these musings with you. Hope you enjoy. ~CeeCee**

**"And if you come around again, **

**Then I will take, then I will take, the chain from off the door."**

**"The Chain," ©Ingrid Michaelson**

_He stands there, in the common area, a plate of food in his hand. Someone – some harmless dude from the hunting party yesterday – is jawin' at him, but he doesn't hear. He's staring over at the pair of them, standing outside one of the ground-floor cells. Tyreese hands her a book, and she looks up at him, pleased. They pass a few moments of conversation, then he leans over, kisses her cheek. Kisses her…in a way that tells him he's done it before. And the way she receives the kiss tells him something more: that maybe those other kisses weren't quite as polite. _

Tick tock_, Glenn had said. _Tick-fuckin'-tock.

Time to jump, man, _he tell himself, and he wonders for a second if his dinner is going to come back up. _Time to jump, before the water's gone.

oooOOOooo

He waits until he sees Tyreese leave for guard duty, watches her walk lightly up the stairs to the catwalk with her dinner. She looks serene, her eyes clear and peaceful. She doesn't glance around. She is Carol, on her own, in this moment. She walks up and away from him, without noticing him there, mere yards away. She looks so beautiful he feels like something's crumbling softly inside his chest.

He waits until she disappears into her cell, walks to the foot of the  
stairs. Others are starting to settle in for the night, and some people greet him, wish him good night, as they pass. He's just standing there, looking up at the catwalk, his heart thundering in his ears, his mouth dry. He itches for a cigarette.

He sees Maggie standing at the entryway of she and Glenn's ground-floor cell. She looks tired. She sees him, raises her hand in greeting. Glenn walks from the kitchen area, carrying a sleeve of Saltines. He goes up to her, wraps one arm around her waist. Looks over, notices Daryl, just standing there. Confusion fills his face momentarily, and Daryl's worried he's going to come over, try and talk to him. He's not sure he can handle it right now.

But something on Glenn's face changes when he reads something on Daryl's. Glenn cranes his neck, looks up at Carol's cell, where the soft glow of gas lamp flickers within. Now he grins at Daryl, waves good night, turns away with Maggie.

He turns back to the stairs that may as well be Mt. Everest. He focuses on the wobbling light of the gas lamp. Remembers those damned little girls from last night, asking him for help. His model airplane, crushed to shit but his very own. The smell of lavender and mint when she leaned into him the other night.

These things make him more afraid. These things make him think maybe life should about more than just gettin' by.

He puts one foot on the first step, starts to climb.

oooOOOooo

He gets about thirty seconds to look at her, unawares, before she notices him. She is sitting on her bunk, propped up against the wall, reading a tattered dime store novel. Her empty dinner plate rests on her small side table. And next to it: the remains of the soap he gave her, nestled in its delicate packaging.

She looks up at him, startled. Smiles. He ignores every cell in his body, which are all hollerin' at him that he really needs to get the hell out of there. He hangs onto the doorway of the cell.

"Hey," she says, and continues, but then the roar of his heart overtakes any comprehension. Before he's fully aware of it, the press of her small hands are on his arm, pulling him down onto her cot. He sits there, for a moment, trying to breathe. Glances up at her quickly. Thinks of a tiny, perfect propeller spinning with a touch of his finger. Something loosens in his chest. He is still terrified, but takes a breath. He glances at her, sitting next to him. She looks concerned.

"Hey," she says again. "Okay?"

"Yeah," he chokes out. "Fine."

She stands up, pour him a small glass of water from a plastic bottle. Passes it to him as she sits back down. Their fingers touch. Her hands are cold. Her leg is pressed against him now, and he can feel it: she's shaking.

_She's scared too. Well, damn. _

There's something in the air of this cell, with the two of them sitting side by side. It feels like right before a storm. He feels terrified, yes, but maybe…also...

"How was the knife class today?" He asks, trying not to grin.

"Oh, I see," she replies, her voice full of laughter, and now she is back to herself. Well almost: he's not sure he's ever notices every single smile line on her face, or every curl of her hair before. But now he does. "I see," she nods, grinning hugely at him. "Since you ask, out of the kindness of your heart and with no ulterior motivation, the class went really well. The girls especially have improved."

She leans back against the wall, still smiling at him. He settles himself as well, rests his head on the concrete next to hers.

"Those girls," he says. "Those little goddamned girls shouldn't have to learn about knives."

"No, they shouldn't, none of them, boys included," she responds, sighs. "But this…this is life, now. And thankfully, they have someone like you to help them out." She tilts her head towards him, and her face is less than a foot and about four thousand miles away from his. His heart begins thudding in his ears again. But somehow, the sensation is pleasant, not terrifying.

"Though," she continues, "Though Ellie says _I'm_ much nicer than you."

"Hell, no! She said I was at _least _as nice as you," he responds

"She fibbed," she shrugs, and it's the most appealing thing he's ever seen. Pieces of his heart are slowly loosening from his chest. He looks down at her plain white sheets, nearly expects to see them lying there, scattered around them.

They sit there for a few moments, neither speaking. The silence is perfect but incomplete.

"But Ellie's just a kid," she finally sighs. "She doesn't understand that you _are_ as nice as me. As good. Better." She turns again towards him, and the teasing is gone from her face. Her eyes are luminous. He cannot keep looking into them. She sits up on her haunches, scoots a little closer, so her knees press into his thighs. He looks down at where their bodies are touching. He cannot seem to tear his gaze away.

"Daryl," she breathes.

He risks it. Looks up. Into her eyes. Those eyes.

She lifts a hand, and it hovers over his cheek. He can feel the heat from it, it's so close. A moment, and it alights like a bird on his stubble, her thumb brushing softly, and he shudders. Another piece of his heart breaks open, flutters, wakes up. Her hand is trembling.

She leans in and before he knows, her mouth, soft but insistent, is on his. Her lips are soft and a little chapped. She smells like the soap he gave her. She smells like home. He doesn't know how it happens, but his hand is finally stroking her soft curls. She is pulling him down, with her, onto the small cot. He opens his eyes and hers are there, inches away. And he sees all of her. All of the beautiful, broken pieces of her. And it's too much.

He jumps up, panting like a rabbit caught in a snare. _Too much. Too much. _He's jumped into the water and he's drowning. He has to go, now, or he will be pulled under. He clutches the metal on either side of the doorway to her cell.

"Okay," her voice from behind him, on the cot. "Okay, slower. Yes. That's fine. But don't go." Her voice holds no threat; it doesn't have to. He knows if he walks out of this cell, that's it: this door will be closed. This, right now, is the chance he didn't knew he had. The chance that he didn't know he wanted.

Now she is on her feet, and he small, warm hand falls onto his back. She gently turns him around. He hangs his head, looking at their feet pointing towards each other. Hers small and bare, his large and clad in heavy work boots. They look right together, there, on the floor, and he's wondering if he's lost his mind.

"Stay," she says, places her hands on his chest. "Stay."

And then he realizes that the water might be deep, but he has her to hold on to. He looks up at her. Holds her gaze for a long minute. She smiles. He steps towards her, wraps his arms around her middle, places his head on her shoulder. She strokes his hair tenderly.

"Stay," she whispers, a last time. So he does.


End file.
